


No Parenthesis

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheppard isn’t quite meeting his eyes. It takes a moment to realize that it’s because Sheppard’s eyes aren’t focusing, and maybe he needs to see Beckett sooner than later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Parenthesis

Everyone looks horrible in the hospital. Beckett’s infirmary isn’t quite like most of the hospitals Rodney’s ever gone to, but it’s got those same damned fluorescent lights – the ancients, known for their underwater greens and blues over most of the city, had to pick the most washed-out spectrum available _here_? – and the tang of too much disinfectant and sickness competing like a demented sort of Rubik’s Cube.

Rodney solved his first when he was two and half, before his fingers were even dexterous enough to handle the big, blocky colors. He still remembers being annoyed at how easy it had been. He remembers the expression of the person who’d given it to him, too; Rodney actually treasures that expression because it was the first time _he_ realized he was smarter than just about anybody ever.

It also reminds him why he doesn’t like medicine: it should be basic, easy; plug in the right places, connect the right bits to the connecting bits and you were fixed. But it always got so messy.

A soft sound – breath exhaled with force and direction – makes Rodney look up. “Hey.”

Sheppard looks like crap. It’s _hard_ for Sheppard to look like crap since he’s got that complexion that doesn’t matter what kind of light is hitting it, and Rodney’s perhaps a little too aware that he shouldn’t be thinking things like that. First of all, he’s a scientist known for being absolutely shit with anything that isn’t numbers and code. Second of all, he really doesn’t need to be thirteen anymore because it was pretty damned awful the first time. But Sheppard still looks like crap, so pale that veins are baby-blue lines along his face, his untamable hair wilted and heavy in defeat. The placid expression that Sheppard usually shows the world is twisted into lines of pain and an emotion Rodney is very glad he can’t identify.

Abruptly aware that he’s being studied as carefully as he watches Sheppard, Rodney clears his throat and orders his body not to shift nervously. He still half-falls off his chair. “Can, do you need anything? Water?”

“Nah. M’good.” The words are raspy, like they’ve run through some kind of giant threshing machine, stripping them to the thinnest sound possible before being released. “How – ”

Rodney shrugs and shifts and tries to keep his ass on something clearly not meant for a man of his height. Or stature. “Two days.”

“Huh.” Sheppard isn’t quite meeting his eyes. It takes a moment to realize that it’s because Sheppard’s eyes aren’t _focusing_ , and maybe he needs to see Beckett sooner than later. “The oth – ”

A cough cuts off the rest of the words and Rodney gets the water anyway. When Sheppard glares, he adopts his best ‘I’m Smarter Than You’ expression – he has at least a hundred that he uses on a daily basis – and says, “You sound like pieces of cardboard being ripped apart. Stop being manly and in denial and drink the water.”

The reason for Sheppard’s denial is obvious the minute he tries to lift his arms: they’re shaking like he’s a ninety year old woman with palsy. Rodney ignores that, and the flash of something that makes Sheppard’s eyes go _black_ for a moment and holds the cup to his mouth and carefully controls the flow-rate.

“Good at that,” Sheppard comments when the cup’s withdrawn.

“Yes, well, Jeanie wouldn’t let anyone but me around her when we were little and she has almost as many allergies as I do, and that is totally irrelevant and you don’t need to know.” He’s babbling. It’s not like it’s something new and unusual for him, words pouring out in clipped tones even when he’s perfectly comfortable and in control, but since he is neither of those things, he’s babbling about the worst things imaginable. He’d give a whole lot for a stock of insults to hurl at the moment, but mostly all he has is _god, please tell me you’re really okay._

“Others?”

“They’re fine. A few burns, cuts and scraps. You were the – ” _only casualty_ “ – only serious injury.”

“Ah.” The syllable cracks. “Beckett is ... ”

“Oh, there’s some influenza strain that’s hitting people randomly and he’s busy making housecalls. Don’t worry, the rest of the staff is here if you need something. Do you need something?” Rodney’s half off the stool before he thinks, two steps closer to the sheet that’s giving Sheppard the illusion of privacy. “I can get a nurse, or I could call Carson if you need him, or maybe I could do it myself, it’s just science after all even if it is _voodoo_ and – ”

He’s rarely happy to see Weir, or hear that hearty _why_ yes _I am in a very good mood and will state firmly that you are too, contrary to any kind of evidence_ tone of her voice, but Rodney almost _smiles_ at her when she pushes past the curtain to say, “Colonel. It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Was there a semi?” His voice is stronger thanks to the water Rodney should’ve just forced on him, rather than accept the initial ‘no’, but it’s still wispy, and rough, the light drawl sandpapered into nothing. “I seem to recall one running me over. Should really get that plate number.”

“I’ll start asking around,” Weir says, smiling like Sheppard cracking jokes is all she needs to reassure herself, “see if anyone remembers. Dr. Beckett tells me you’re going to be stuck here for a few days while you heal up. Is there anything I can get you?”

“You know, he’s right. Your bedside manner really is crap.” Rodney blinks when both of them look at him. “Aaaand I said that out loud. Right. Um. Sorry?” He’s always acutely aware when he sounds Canadian, not because he’s ashamed of it but because it sounds so odd next to flat-speaking Americans. It’s not completely different, the way the foreign speakers in the labs are, just ... odd. Like he’s missed a note on the piano, or hit flat instead of sharp. His skin crawls in reaction and he can hear himself go facile and formal in reaction: “Anyway. You don’t have to worry about that, Elizabeth, I have him completely taken care of for the next few days. After that, he’ll have to entertain himself.”

When neither of them stop looking surprised and a little worried, he forces himself to stop bouncing on his toes and scowls at them.

“So... did I miss something?” Sheppard says, eyes on Rodney but the question clearly intended for Weir. “I remember the explosion. I remember shoving Yee and Lindros into the shuttle and then – ”

“You... didn’t get inside, in time.” It takes Weir almost thirty seconds to say that, which is oddly reassuring. She’s supposed to be in control and calm, diplomat’s facade in place no matter what. Except that this is _scary_ and it helps that others are freaking out, too. “By the time the others could exit the jumper to get you, you had ... well, Dr. Beckett said that it was – ”

“You died.” The words pop out before Rodney can stop them, and he immediately freezes, horrified to hear the exasperation in his voice. “I mean, that. Um. Well, no, you just _died_. You have second degree burns on your forearms and calves where your clothes were too thin and you’re lucky you fell on your face because that’s the only thing that protected you from being ugly for the rest of your life – you should see the back of your head, it’s like fractal patterns and Carson said it might grow in white – and oh yeah, the power flux caught you full on and stopped your heart and when you fell down you landed in muck and you couldn’t have breathed through that shit even if you’d been alive to try. You were dead for almost a full minute before Teyla got your heart started again and you died _again_ when we got you back here and Beckett’s not doing housecalls, he’s sleeping because he’s been fussing over you for two goddamned days now and he’s exhausted, and oh, you’re probably going to be fine. Because you’re Lt. Colonel John Sheppard and you’re never anything _but_ fine.”

Supremely aware that he’s being an idiot, Rodney grabs the laptop from the floor and carefully places it on Sheppard’s stomach. “It’s got _Farscape_ , including _The Peacekeeper Wars_ , and if you actually burn through that before you’re released I’ve got _Next Generation_ , everything but season one which I refuse to rewatch. I’m glad you’re awake.”

He can still feel their eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn around. He just stalks past several nurses – who heard, of course, and one is actually _giggling_ while the others just blink – and heads towards his lab. He’s got a city full of problems to beat his head against for a while and he can’t wait for the bruises.

* * *

It’s a week before he actually sees Sheppard again. Rodney’s not avoiding him, precisely, but he doesn’t need to go to the infirmary for updates – Sheppard’s a popular guy and scientists are notorious gossips – and he’s got literally a million things that need to be done right that second if not yesterday, so he’s legitimately too busy and will be so if Sheppard ever decides to come see him in the lab. Which he doesn’t.

What he _does_ is wait in Rodney’s room, sitting gingerly on Rodney’s bed like he’s afraid to move too far in any one direction. It takes a moment for Rodney to understand that it’s not pain that’s making him nervous but fear of stepping on Rodney’s things.

Rodney has his own system of organization, one he’s maintained since childhood. It’s not his fault that everyone else thinks of it as ‘being a slob’. 

The light from the hallway catches Sheppard in the act of turning his head towards the door, one eye totally obscured in whiteout while the other glitters in dark shadows. He looks like a figure out of the fantasy books Rodney read before he realized that science nerds weren’t actually allowed to like fantasy, creatures that aren’t human and science has absolutely no explanation for.

“Hey.” Sheppard doesn’t seem to realize he’s being equated with a figure from hell and smiles with that genial charm of his. “I brought you something from the mess; Zelenka doesn’t think you’ve eaten since I got back.”

 _Since he got back_. Such a quaint way of putting it. Rodney’s tempted to say exactly that, but sometimes he actually does engage his brain before his mouth, and away, he’s not sure he can speak at all right then. There’s something living in his throat and it’s sucking up all his air. He goes to his desk where there is a bowl of some kind of stew that smells good, even though it looks like it’s stone-cold, and sits. He doesn’t eat. There are blue vegetables that he knows taste something like fruity potatoes in the stew, floating serenely.

“It’s not exactly home cooking, but, it’s not bad. Especially if home-cooking means whatever the cooks on the compound have come up with. Gotta say, having civilians handle this stuff is a lot tastier.” Sheppard’s watching him, still caught half in and out of the light. “Eat.”

“Not hungry, thanks. I should go back to the lab. Those readouts that Simpson took are – ”

“Rodney.” It’s not the first time Sheppard’s called him by his first name, but the tone is new and it stops Rodney halfway out of his seat. “Sit down.”

He sits.

“Eat.”

He manages to pick up a spoon laden with what looks like real meat and broth that beads enticingly against the plastic utensil, but it stalls about halfway. “Really, I’m not hungry.”

“Rodney,” Sheppard says, like he’s Rodney’s mother and he gets to use that particular tone with him, “you haven’t eaten anything but power bars in a week and we don’t want you going into hypoglycemic shock, do we? Eat.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, we’re back to mocking a legitimate and medically documented condition that I am not making up and I’ve had power bars, so stop pretending to worry.”

“I’m not leaving until you eat it.”

Rodney isn’t sure why Sheppard thinks that’s a threat, but he finds himself eating half the bowl – the bites coming faster as he discovers that he is hungry and the stew is actually pretty good – before his stomach twinges and the spoon drops back into it with a _sploosh_ ing sound. “There. I’ve eaten. Stop being a mother hen and go let Carson look at you to make sure you’re okay.”

“Carson checks me over when he needs to,” Sheppard says, completely unperturbed. “I saw him a couple hours ago. He says I’m doing fine.”

“Yes, lovely, go tell someone who cares. I need to get back to work, and – ”

“ _Sit down_ , McKay.”

It’s not that he raised his voice, or even that he sounded particularly angry. There’s just an intensity that has Rodney’s knees buckling and dumping him into his seat without conscious command. “Okay, Colonel, I don’t know what’s going on under that mop you call hair, but I am a very busy man and you are still sick, or at least are not in your own room, which you have, which is where you should _be_. So go there.”

Sheppard ignores him, swinging his knee up onto the bed to relax more comfortably against it. It looks natural and expected, like the room has decided it approves of his being there; given his ability to woo Atlantis like a lover, this isn’t an impossible thing. “You haven’t eaten, you aren’t sleeping, and my people and your people are betting on when you’ll finally collapse. There’s a side-bet on who you’re going to take with you.”

“Yes, yes, I am frenetic and evil. This was established long before we ever came here, and those are only the bets they’re _telling_ you about. The idea that scientists don’t know how to mock is a highly fallacious one. We perfected the art.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Sheppard’s recovered his drawl and it rolls over Rodney like a hot Texas sun – he’s been there, once. He thinks. “They aren’t mocking. A couple of ’em are pretty worried about you, even.” Sheppard’s tone says this is amazing, given it’s _Rodney McKay_ they’re worrying over.

Rodney rolls his eyes. “Didn't we go over this? Yes, I know, I’m the anti-Christ, but without this anti-Christ the city isn’t going to function and you’ll all drown horribly, so – Colonel!” He didn’t even hear Sheppard get up, only noticing when heat suddenly tingles along his shoulders like that first shock of stepping into a sauna, seconds before Sheppard rests a hand on the back of his neck. A hard stomach – isn’t it bruised? From being shocked over and over and over, pummeled during frantic CPR? – leans against his arm.

It takes a lot of effort not to move away. _He’s still weak, hurt, he needs to lean. That’s all. That’s all this is._ The weight of him against Rodney is shocking. And ... nice?

“I’m not dead.”

And suddenly, Rodney gets what this is. Or at least what Sheppard thinks this is, and how he’s almost right, but he’s almost wrong too, and that leaves him just leaning against Rodney like Rodney’s going to melt and forgive and go yes, yes, this is all lovely and wonderful and I’m healed now, praise the Lord. Or even praise Colonel Sheppard, hallowed be his name.

Rodney stands up so quickly Sheppard has to catch himself on the chair. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this. I am not pining for death that bounces off you like you’re made of Teflon, nor am I working myself to the ground like I am somehow responsible either for your death or rescue. That’s stupid, and I’ve told you often enough that I am not stupid. I am just _working_ because for once I am not running around being shot at by aliens. There is nothing mysterious or subtle about this, Colonel.”

“’Cause you’re such a subtle guy,” is the random reply, Sheppard abandoning the chair to lean against Rodney again. “Also, how is it you can parse everybody down to ones and zeros but not yourself?”

“I understand myself just fine, Colonel,” Rodney says, voice as stiff as the rest of him. He isn’t going to pull away. For one thing, it’s _nice_ to feel warmth soak through his clothes, Sheppard’s body hard in all the right types of places but soft right where Rodney’s elbow is ... Anyway, Sheppard is probably still tired or sore or something and that’s why he’s continuing to use Rodney as a cane. That’s all. Right? “I understand that you seem to have an ego problem that puts _mine_ to – mmph!”

Rodney has never consciously thought about kissing Sheppard. He doesn’t consciously think about that kind of thing, ever, no matter how poetic he waxes about certain buxom blonde scientists. Sex is something he likes, when he has it, and wants because he’s breathing and male and possesses a fully-functioning penis, but it’s not something he sits down and fantasizes about. Normally, he fantasizes about winning the Nobel and proving several other scientists that they were wrong and he was, of course, right.

So he has no idea why kissing Sheppard feels like _finally_ , like he’s slipped into old, worn clothes he didn’t know he had, lounging around a home he’s never wanted since fleeing from his parents at age twelve. He doesn’t understand why his brain is smugly pleased when Sheppard tastes like cold mountain air going past at two hundred miles an hour and vague hints of coffee, like it’s something he’s expected. He doesn’t understand why Sheppard is kissing him, full stop.

He makes a thoroughly humiliating noise when Sheppard _does_ stop, pulling away. There’s something reckless and brilliant in Sheppard’s eyes when he looks down – he always forgets that Sheppard is taller by a few scant inches – at him. “You were upset, Rodney. It’s okay to be upset. It’s what makes us men.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t your thoroughly repressive and idiotic American Male Stereotype imply that I am _not_ supposed to be upset? As, clearly, I wasn’t. I was just busy.” Rodney’s not quite sure when he sat down, but Sheppard’s sitting beside him, shoulder to knee pressed up close, so that’s okay.

“Well, true. It’s what makes us – yeah, I’m just going to abandon that whole line because it doesn’t work. But it is okay to be upset. It was ... scary.”

It’s the internal quality to the last word that breaks Rodney out of his mental loop of _John Sheppard just kissed me and I am a twelve year old girl because whoa_. He takes a breath, then another, and studies Sheppard’s down-turned face. The pallor is gone, veins hidden back where they’re supposed to be, but his eyes are black, just like before, and he’s nibbling his lower lip.

Rodney kisses him again, just to get him to stop. “Yeah, okay,” he says, because he doesn’t want to hear what Sheppard’s going to tell him. It’s selfish, but Rodney’s not ready to hear that Sheppard somehow remembers bits and pieces of laying on a dirt-ball planet while around him people babbled and prayed and Yee actually cried. He’s pretty sure that Sheppard doesn’t want to, either, and is telling him purely for Rodney’s supposed benefit. “I was upset. You died, multiple times, and I couldn’t do anything about it, and I couldn’t help you, and I really hate being helpless almost as much as I hate people telling me what to do. It makes me angry and so I go do the things I _can_ do.”

“Like bribe, bully, and threaten anyone who brought tv shows to let you make copies of them?”

The question comes with a mischievous grin and a relieved glint in Sheppard’s brown-again eyes and Rodney has to grin back. He also has to kiss Sheppard again because really, he has a very good mouth to kiss. “Please,” Rodney says, eventually. “Like I wanted those tv shows for _you?_ ”


End file.
